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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775423">Color In The Picture</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity'>luninosity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Color in Everything [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Gentle!Dom Chris, Love, M/M, Moving In Together, Porn with Feelings, Soft Helpless Seb Kink, Subspace, Tender Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:27:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775423</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris doesn’t tie him up. Chris doesn’t have to. Not when it’s this: not when they’re doing it like this.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chris Evans/Sebastian Stan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Color in Everything [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084541</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>270</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Color In The Picture</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1918/gifts">the1918</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just a little belated, but still pretty close, so: happy birthday, the1918! :-)</p><p>This is more or less the fault of that whole discussion on tumblr about consensual soft sweet helpless!Seb kink, sort of roleplaying in that sense - Seb of course isn't helpless and could totally stop everything, but they like playing around with the scenario, with Sebastian just needing to be taken care of and made to feel good while he's not allowed to move or do anything, while Chris makes him feel so nice...</p><p>Title from The Regrettes' song "Coloring Book," this time!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chris doesn’t tie him up.</p><p>Chris doesn’t have to. Not when it’s this: not when they’re doing it like this. Sebastian loves being tied up by Chris, of course—and getting thoroughly spanked by Chris, and being teased by Chris, and being a brat for Chris, and everything else they do together. But right now that’s not what they’re doing, not what Chris needs from him. What they both need.</p><p>Chris sits beside him on the bed. Late-morning light—honeyed, eloquent, lazy—sneaks in around shutters and trails across Sebastian’s bare chest and makes him warm, not overly so, just right. The light also paints Chris’s cheekbone, long eyelashes, exhaled breath, because it knows what’s important.</p><p>Sebastian, naked and happy, looking at the man he loves, says with everything in his soul, “I’m here, Chris.”</p><p>“I know you are.” Chris touches him: a hand resting over his hip, not hard, not too near his cock, which stiffens regardless at the proximity.</p><p>Chris remains dressed, simple and casual in an old cozy red Henley and jeans. They’d gone out earlier, grabbing coffee with Scott, taking Dodger for a walk, checking the mail on the way in. Chris’s home here in Boston is a domestic fairytale of snug New England comfort, and Sebastian’s no longer surprised by how exactly <em>Chris</em> it feels, in a way his own series of short-lived New York City apartments never has. Chris likes clean lines and pale wood and deep calming colors and big windows and neat thoughtful shelves of books; Sebastian had, his first time ever walking in, turned and kissed Chris on the spot, not having the words to explain.</p><p>Chris has let him in. Chris has shared this home with him. Has given him so much.</p><p>Sebastian hopes he’s given Chris just as much. He tries. Right there at Chris’s side. In love with Chris Evans, always and forever. Ready to guard that huge passionate heart with every piece of himself.</p><p>Whatever Chris needs, whatever Chris asks. Sebastian will be here.</p><p>He can do that, he <em>can</em> be here, because Chris wants him here. A constant joy, that thought. Popping up at random moments just to make him grin. Himself, with Chris Evans. Himself coming home with Chris Evans. Himself falling asleep in Chris’s arms, waking up with Chris, bodies and hearts entwined.</p><p>Sometimes the world, in the form of their schedules, demands time apart. They both understand. Doesn’t mean they don’t miss each other; and there’s been a lot of missing, these last couple weeks. Time to make up for, well, lost time, Sebastian thinks, and smiles.</p><p>He loves being naked with Chris. He loves sharing this bed with Chris. And he loves the anticipation of what’s to come. A reminder of who they are, what they need, how they fit.</p><p>They’ve had sex already, of course—the wild riotous delight of coming home together, or more accurately Chris coming home two nights ago to find Sebastian waiting in his bed, a surprise that’s exactly the kind Chris loves, purely romantic and purely good. They’d actually only fallen asleep that first night—it’d been late and they’d both been traveling—and had woken up naked and hungry for each other and for food, and Chris had pounced on him in the kitchen before the toast’d even leapt up from the toaster.</p><p>Chris has, moments ago, helped remove Sebastian’s clothing, though <em>helped</em> isn’t quite the word. More taking over. Purposefully gradually undressing him, bit by bit. Not permitting Sebastian to assist in any way: requiring him to merely stand still and accept the peeling-away of layers, letting Chris’s hands do what they want with his body.</p><p>He feels his lips part now, physical recollection of that feeling. Simmering echoes. Gathering, unfolding, growing heavy and supple and in need of Chris’s care: oh yes. Yes.</p><p>Chris touches him again, hand stroking along Sebastian’s left thigh. Sebastian’s thigh embraces the sensation. “I know. It’s just, y’know…”</p><p>“You want to take care of me,” Sebastian fills in. “And I want that, too. I need that. I’m yours, Chris, please.”</p><p>It’s been too long. Three weeks, this time. Chris in D.C., meeting with politicians and having conversations. Sebastian in New York, going to see the premiere of a friend’s new play and doing some writing, maybe something he’ll show to someone someday, maybe not, no hurry.</p><p>Chris gets that without him needing to explain. Chris will be here if Sebastian ever does decide to pursue that path, and also if he doesn’t; Sebastian knows this beyond question. Chris’s heart’s true and gold and loyal throughout, every heroic atom, all the way down.</p><p>And now all those heroic atoms are here. With him. With Dodger’s familiar puppy-snores out in the living room where he’s napping, and with the sunshine of a new day pouring in around them.</p><p>“Missed you, sweet kid.” Chris has called him that, half-teasing and half not, for years. It’d begun in an interview, when Chris had referred to him that way; it’d become a shared joke, since Sebastian’s not <em>that</em> much younger and absolutely not sweet and innocent. Sometimes, like now, though…</p><p>Sometimes he is. For Chris.</p><p>That’s the other half, the not-joking part of the words. When Chris’s voice gets all low and wicked and rumbly, deep and possessive, ready to <em>take care of</em> Sebastian. And Sebastian’s whole body lights up and melts and turns shivery and submissive in response.</p><p>Automatic. Wonderful. Every time.</p><p>He murmurs, “Please, Chris,” and welcomes the words in his mouth, welcomes the feel of them and of his muscles, displayed in acquiescence across the bed. The sheets are cool and cream-hued, but they warm with body heat. Chris is warm as well beside him, firm and large.</p><p>He likes Chris being dressed, while he’s naked. The contrast sets off tiny crackly sparks under his skin: himself bare and exposed, while Chris remains covered up and casually assertive. Somehow extra-kinky like that. Naughty. Filthy, splendidly so.</p><p>“My Sebastian,” Chris proclaims, fond and authoritative, and takes hold of Sebastian’s leg and repositions it: moving, tugging wider, arranging. “You <em>have</em> been needing this, haven’t you? Needin’ it so bad, someone to make you go all soft and small and sweet, someone to take charge of you, make you feel all nice…” He’s got both hands on Sebastian’s inner thighs, soothing, rubbing.</p><p>Sebastian sighs the, “Yes,” and closes his eyes for a moment, subsumed by pleasure. His body hums, settles; his head’s already growing hazy, pink and fluffy and full of cotton candy. “All yours, Chris…”</p><p>“I know you are.” Chris pets his legs some more, then reaches up for Seb’s arms. They’ve gone hazy too, uncoordinated, unresisting as Chris sets his hands on the pillow by his head. “And you’re gonna be so good for me, aren’t you? You won’t move, ’cause you <em>can’t</em> move, baby, all you can do’s just lie there where I put you, just feel everything I do to you…”</p><p>Sebastian exhales, sound drawn out of his soul at Chris’s words, Chris’s voice.</p><p>“Yeah.” Chris’s fingers find Sebastian’s right nipple, and begin a leisurely rolling, tugging, pulling. “So nice for me. So helpless, the way you want to be. Your body, your pretty little cock, that greedy hole of yours, where you like it so much when you’re stuffed full…all mine. All of you. Nothin’ you can do about it. Nothing at all.”</p><p>Sebastian moans again, unable to hold back the sound. His cock’s upright, already leaking, dripping undeniable want all over himself; the ache of not being touched there spreads out and glows and makes his bones into gold too, like the light. He’s liquid yearning all over, head to toes; he can’t focus on anything except the growing radiance.</p><p>He’s Chris’s. Yes. He can’t move, won’t move…because he wants this, he wants to lie here helpless and small and easy for Chris to handle, to fondle, to use…because he needs to be Chris’s, whatever Chris wants to do with him, to make him feel…because that’s all he needs.</p><p>He could protest. He could move. He could sit up. He’s got muscles—not the same as Chris’s, but not bad, these days—and nothing’s holding him in place. No restraints, no bonds, no ties.</p><p>He doesn’t want to move. He’s choosing this. His choice: to let Chris help him, to let Chris take care of him, to let Chris take him away to that blurry enchanted headspace where everything’s shining and indistinct, nothing sharp or lonely or hurting, only made of boundless bliss.</p><p>Chris moves, instead. A sweep of clothing. A rustle. And then a presence beside him: naked now, so glorious, so strong and solid.</p><p>Sebastian blinks, processing. Gazes at Chris, his Chris, who’s now stretched out beside him in bed, balanced on an elbow.</p><p>Chris is so beautiful. Ocean-wave eyes, dark ruffled hair, a masculine scruff of beard—growing out again, and Sebastian loves the way it feels against his skin. Scattered shy freckles, a hint of chest hair—Chris hasn’t needed to wax lately for any role—and obvious power, contained in a superhero physique. All of that <em>is</em> just the physical; Chris’s heart, that big rainbow-laced generous heart, is practically visible too. In that body, in those eyes.</p><p>Chris writes his memories and his loves on himself in tattoo-ink. Chris cares so deeply; Chris wants to make the world better, pours so much of himself into his characters and his passions, and always, always, tries to give Sebastian everything he needs.</p><p>It’s important that Chris know that, suddenly. Sebastian, through expanding cotton-candy clouds, announces, “Chris. So good.”</p><p>Chris laughs. “I can tell you’re feeling good, baby, just looking at you. Watching you go right there in your head, for me.”</p><p>“Not me…you. <em>You’re</em> good. Perfect. Always. With me.”</p><p>Chris laughs a little more, the sort of laugh that’s nearly a sigh; his eyes grow brighter, affection in cloudless summery skies. “You’re pretty far under already, aren’t you, sweetheart? You sound like it.”</p><p>“Yes,” Sebastian agrees. “But you are. Perfect. <em>My</em> Chris.”</p><p>“Always yours, Seb. You know I am.” Chris lifts Sebastian’s arm, drops a kiss on his wrist, sets it back into place. “You stay right here, right here in your head too, where it’s all soft and good for you, and you don’t have to do a thing, you don’t need to worry about anything at all, you just lie here and let me make you feel nice, okay?”</p><p>“Mmmm,” Sebastian manages, thoughts beginning their slide into incoherent emptied-out pleasure at Chris’s voice, at the ruffled-velvet sensation of words and Chris’s body, so close and so commanding.</p><p>“My good boy,” Chris says, and Sebastian sinks down into the praise, into the submission, as irresistible thrumming waters close over his thoughts and wash them away.</p><p>Chris thinks he’s good. Chris wants him. Chris wants to keep him, wants to love him, wants to make him feel good. Yes.</p><p>Chris strokes his thighs again, then puts a hand between his legs: not on his cock, which bobs and drips, uncontrolled and excited. But lower: fondling his balls, those vulnerable weights, then rubbing behind them, over tender intimate skin. Sebastian cannot move, floating, a paradox of weight and lightness. His body’s somnolent but tingling, alive like stone bathed in sun.</p><p>Chris rubs at his hole, gently, gently. There’s no lube yet, just the rough press of a finger over the opening, a dry tantalizing promise. Sebastian’s body fills up with certainty, with capitulation: wholehearted and true. This is good. This. Belonging to Chris. Whatever Chris chooses to do with him.</p><p>Chris will never hurt him. Knowing as much, he surrenders himself to tranquil perfect simplicity.</p><p>Chris rubs at his hole a little more. Diaphanous distant bits of fire—sparks of want, not hurt—flicker, muffled under all-consuming rapture. Sebastian mumbles something that doesn’t come out in any language he knows, but is a happy sound; he knows that much.</p><p>Chris is smiling—it’s in his voice, audible along the glide of his accent—when he muses, “You love this, don’t you, baby? The way you’re all mine, your body’s all mine, just giving it all up, all that control…you could stop me, you could do anything, Seb, if you wanted to, but you don’t, do you? You just want to lie right here and be used, let me use you…”</p><p>Sebastian’s vision’s drowned in prisms of light. His mouth’s open, slack. His cock’s leaking even more—he feels wetness on his stomach, on his breathless skin—and he has no control over that either. He doesn’t want to. He wants…what Chris wants.</p><p>It’s easy like this, he’s easy like this, no room for the worries about not being good enough that sometimes scratch tiny hollownesses into the pit of his stomach. None of that exists, not here: he’s Chris’s, that’s all he has to be, and that’s right.</p><p>He’s where he should be. So’s Chris. They both know that.</p><p>“So easy,” Chris murmurs, a loving dominant reflection of Seb’s jumbled kaleidoscope thoughts. “So easy for me, aren’t you? Me touchin’ you, me talkin’ to you, and you just open right up for me. The way you need. Because you do need it, don’t you, sweetheart? You need somebody takin’ care of you. Makin’ you feel all good inside.”</p><p>Sebastian makes a noise that must approximate <em>yes</em> well enough; Chris sounds pleased. “I know, sweet boy. I know you like feeling this way, know you need it. So needy, aren’t you? Begging for someone to play with you, with this nice needy hole here—” His fingers rub there again, underscoring the point; Sebastian sobs and squirms, reactions purely instinctive now. “—or with that desperate pretty cock of yours, baby, where you’re all wet and leaking because you just can’t keep it in, can you? You need it so bad you’d come all over yourself, just like this, if I let you, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”</p><p>Sebastian’s mouth offers up agreement, low and inarticulate. He’s barely comprehending the words, but he knows them: knows Chris loves him this way, eager and messy and malleable, shivering with random oscillations of pleasure, utterly lost to submission. Nothing held back or concealed, everything open and unguarded and on display, laid bare.</p><p>He can see Chris, but his gaze is unsteady; Chris is ringed in light, a halo. An angel, a master, a dominant, terms that Sebastian’s brain swirls through hazily; if Chris is an angel he’s the wicked commanding sinful kind, the kind that knows about desire, Seb’s brain decides, and he giggles aloud, tipsy, dizzy with submission.</p><p>“Something funny?” Chris takes the hand away from stroking his hole to tug at—not the thick neglected weight that’s his cock, but the heaviness of his balls below that. The tug’s not hard, or maybe it is, but it feels good; Sebastian giggles again, head spinning and mouth making noises and body twitching more, awash with it all. His stomach’s getting more wet and sticky.</p><p>“Oh, Seb.” Chris sounds even gentler now, and pets his hip, just once. “You’re so far gone, aren’t you? So deep…god, it’s been too long, hasn’t it? Guess I’ve been neglecting you, not payin’ you enough attention, when I know you need it, and I guess I haven’t even done much with you over the phone, lately…so sweet, so hungry for me, all the time, aren’t you? Needing a good reminder that you’re all mine.” His hand wraps around Seb’s cock, a sudden shock of grip. Sebastian had almost—almost—forgotten that that was his cock, just another glowing line of good feelings centered there, but Chris’s hand’s abrupt and powerful and all at once Sebastian’s moaning, sobbing, shaking under rapid rough claiming strokes.</p><p>“This,” Chris says, Chris reminds him, “this is mine. This pretty cock gets all wet for me, it comes for me, it does what I say. You don’t get to choose. You don’t <em>have</em> to choose. You don’t have to think at all, sweetheart, because I’m taking care of you now. You just let it all happen, let it all go, just think about me and me doing things to make you feel good, baby, understand?”</p><p>Sebastian whimpers. Whines. Makes some other mindless wordless noises he’s not even embarrassed about. Those noises are Chris’s, the way he is. He’s so happy, so well cared for, so shimmery and luminous all over.</p><p>Chris strokes his cock more, faster and faster. Lots of rubbing. Rub, rub, rub. Slicker now: Sebastian’s own slickness, flooding out, easing the motion. His mouth’s hanging open, loose the way he’s loose all over, for Chris. The strokes keep going and <em>going</em> and the feeling doesn’t stop, only swells, as if he’s opening up and spilling outward, edges of self collapsing and dissolving, a strange incandescent gathering-up and billowing-out—</p><p>“Go ahead,” Chris says. “I want you to, baby. Come all over yourself. Come for me.”</p><p>Sebastian’s mouth makes another broken sound, and Chris’s relentless hand rubs at him more, and all at once his body tips over the brink: he’s spasming, babbling noises, coming and coming, everything jewel-edged and brilliant and euphoric. He feels more wetness, more heat, rush up and out and all over himself; he can’t stop it, has no control over it, simply jerking and shuddering in burst after burst of ecstasy.</p><p>Chris strokes him through it all, rubbing at his length, at his tip, over his wet slit. The ecstasy is near pain in a delicious way, streaked with scarlet and gold intensity; he wails, trembles, pours some more droplets of himself out for Chris.</p><p>Chris does it more, harder, not letting up. Sebastian’s whole body, whole self, arches up in silent heaven-bright glory, too immense to contain. He can’t feel any more—he <em>can’t</em>—and yet it doesn’t stop, Chris doesn’t stop, and the sensations rise and scour his veins and he’s full of fire and sunlight and finally blank white endless soaring, as his body sags down into the bed, as he comes apart and loses himself.</p><p>He’s not entirely unconscious. He feels Chris touching him, feels Chris’s hands stroking his hips, his stomach. Chris is saying something. Sebastian can’t make out words, but the familiar low rumble is nice. Chris is proud of him. Happy with him. Chris is happy, with him. That feels warm inside.</p><p>Chris touches his lips, traces them. Sebastian’s mouth is slack and wet. Maybe he’s been drooling a bit while getting fucked, not even noticing or caring. Chris’s thumb smudges wetness at the corner of his mouth; Sebastian, head full of giddy drifting twinkles, nuzzles his mouth against the thumb, takes it in, suckles at it messily. That feels good too. Chris’s other hand strokes his hair.</p><p>Chris’s body’s nice beside him, all hard and hot and lightly fuzzy and completely powerful but leisurely about it, unhurried. Sebastian wants to stay here forever, where everything’s soft and glowing and tiny sparkles still echo and resonate from that sweet glittery spot between his thighs where Chris’s big hands played with him and made him feel so good, where Chris will play with him more, use his mouth or his cock or his hole however they’re meant to be used, all for Chris…</p><p>Chris’s hand slips from his mouth. Chris is bending over him. “Seb? Baby? You awake?”</p><p>Sebastian is awake, though in a fluffy pillowy sort of way, all pink sugar and sun-gilded clouds and intent blue eyes looking at him. He makes a little sound because Chris wants him to, head lolling.</p><p>Chris steadies him. “Sebastian? Come on, sweet boy, you gotta check in, okay? I know you’re feelin’ really good right now, I love that, but we can’t keep going if you’re not here with me.”</p><p>Sebastian would very much like to keep going. He tries to talk. The sound that emerges is soft and breathy, a sigh, a coo, a floating stray wisp of cotton. He would wriggle closer to Chris, but he can’t move.</p><p>Chris sighs. “I want to fuck you, baby—you know I do, know I love gettin’ to fuck you when you’re all soft and sweet for me—but I can’t do that if you’re really not here, okay?”</p><p>Sebastian, faced with this threat, makes himself focus more. The whimper that slips free from his throat is instinctive and dismayed, needing Chris and Chris’s claiming of his body in every possible way, And Chris grins. “You want that, too, don’t you? I know you do. Know how much you love it, being all helpless like this, waiting for me to just take you hard, hard as I want, while you can’t do a thing about it. All mine, Seb.”</p><p>Sebastian manages to breathe, “Yes…yours…please…” His voice sounds not like his, or maybe exactly like his: fumbling, higher than comets, drunk on the presence of Chris claiming him. “Please, sir…Chris…’m yours, please fuck me…want to be yours, want to feel you…I’ll be so good for you, Chris, please…”</p><p>Chris laughs softly. “Figured that’d work. You’d wake up for that, me telling you what I’m gonna do with you, reminding you how much you belong to me.”</p><p>“Please,” Sebastian begs. He can’t think. “Please, please…”</p><p>“Yeah,” Chris says. “Yeah, always, Seb. I love you.” His kiss, when he leans down, is simple and unquestionable as a vow: firm and quick and incontrovertible, pressed to Sebastian’s parted lips.</p><p>A flurry of motion happens, after that. Chris stretches, grabs something—lube, Seb’s honey-drenched brain registers slowly—and gets that big hand back between Sebastian’s thighs. His fingers aren’t as deliberate this time; slicked-up and blunt, they press and push in, making Sebastian’s body yield.</p><p>Sebastian’s body <em>wants</em> to yield. He opens gladly, suffused by lapidary radiance. His muscles ripple and flutter and give way, a fact he registers almost distantly: Chris is pushing those fingers inside him, and Sebastian craves that, needs that, knows nothing else except that. Chris, inside him.</p><p>He lies motionless otherwise, pliant as candlewax heated by flame. His cock’s mostly limp, just up enough to flop against its own release on his stomach when Chris’s fingers fuck him. Chris makes an interested sort of noise and takes him in hand: fondling Sebastian’s spent and vulnerable length and tip, squeezing him, tugging at him.</p><p>Sebastian sobs, overwhelmed by sensations. It’s too sensitive, too much, but he doesn’t want Chris to stop. He wants Chris to use him, to fuck him, to toy with him. As much as Chris wants. However Chris wants. Every possibility Chris can imagine for Sebastian’s body. Sebastian can do nothing about it, being Chris’s wholly and completely, being owned by Chris so entirely; shivers of lightning streak down his spine at the whirling thought.</p><p>He’s Chris’s sweet boy, like this. That’s all he knows; no room for anything else among the clouds and shining stars. He’s certain of his place here, and he’s happy.</p><p>Chris has more fingers in him. At least three, pumping, stroking, moving in and out. The sounds are wonderful, slick and decadent. The feeling is so nice: wet and slippery and full, and sometimes Chris does something that makes the world go all shaky and electric and spun-sugar, all the way down to Sebastian’s toes. Chris praises him when that happens, once, twice.</p><p>Chris pauses. Slips the wonderful fingers away and out of him. Sebastian’s mouth, unbidden, lets out that newfound wordless pleading cooing noise again.</p><p>Chris moves between his lax spread thighs, lifts Sebastian’s legs so they rest on Chris’s broad shoulders—Sebastian’s too drowsy and uncoordinated, and his limbs want to slide and sprawl; Chris has to rearrange him again, as if he’s a doll, a plaything—and moves atop him. Light limns Chris’s hair, pools and pours over Chris’s shoulders, framing him: every motion’s otherworldly, in Sebastian’s cloudy head. A fantasy. Beautiful.</p><p>Blunt hot hardness pushes at his hole, at the spot where he’s all stretched and slippery and, yes, sweet for Chris. Sebastian drinks in the feeling, basks in it, lets it encompass all of his being. Chris pushes deeper, a long thick glide that fills up all the empty places, all the way to the hilt. And they both catch breath at the same instant, eyes meeting.</p><p>Sebastian’s not focusing well, lost in waves of lovely coruscating sensation. Chris feels so good. So large. Seb’s body, Seb’s hole, is so full. It’s so nice. Everything he needs. Oh yes.</p><p>Chris pulls back and thrusts, not too fast but entirely in command, establishing a rhythm. The rhythm’s a heartbeat, a shared pulse, the soul of the world. Framed in bedroom light and rumpled creamy sheets. Everywhere, thundering. Sebastian feels it deep inside, where Chris sinks into him in every possible way.</p><p>Chris fucks him like that, gazing down at his face, impossibly tender and fierce at once. Chris’s cock moves in and out of him, and Sebastian floats and flies and is carried on the pounding of it, reliable and relentless. His hole, stretched wide, takes every inch of Chris’s cock inside him; he feels himself give way and give in, everything surrendered and simple now, himself and his body being rocked by ceaseless dominant thrusts. He knows this, he loves this, he loves his Chris, who takes such good care of him.</p><p>He sighs. Feels the sigh like a transmutation, a flowing, a rolling profound wave that makes his muscles clench and relax, clench and relax, over and over. It’s not conscious thought, purely instinct: he’s being fucked by Chris, and his body moves with it, and Sebastian drifts, peaceful and incandescent.</p><p>Chris groans. And the thrusts speed up, and the angle shifts. One of Sebastian’s legs slips from Chris’s shoulder down to Chris’s waist; Chris pushes Sebastian’s thighs up and back, making his hips lift, making his hole even easier to slam into. Sebastian’s cock’s mostly hard again and dribbling weakly all across his stomach; he doesn’t know whether he’s coming again, or if he hasn’t ever stopped, and it seems as if he’ll never stop, as his cock rubs against his body and he sobs and cries because it’s too much and too good and Chris’s big rigid shaft keeps pounding into him…</p><p>Chris moves and hits that spot, that supernova explosion spot; hits it over and over, not letting up. Sebastian’s face is wet, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes; he’s moaning and babbling and—and coming, maybe, god, he can’t tell, but it doesn’t matter, this is what Chris wants, this profound endless surrender—it’s what they both want, because he’s Chris’s, oh god yes, all of him, here for Chris to hold and care for and thrust into and use for both their pleasure—</p><p>Chris gasps, “Sebastian—Seb—oh, Seb—god, so fucking sweet, so perfect, baby, so good for me, taking it, taking it all, just made for me—oh, fuck, Seb, I’m gonna come, baby, gonna fill you all up with me, watch it leak out of you after, when you’re all loose and open, the way you get when I fuck you, all good and used—you want that, don’t you, sweet boy, you want me to fuck that nice sweet hole so hard you’re dripping with me, all mine—”</p><p>Sebastian wails, a high needy anguished plea for exactly that, and his hole tightens around Chris, clutching frantically with inarticulate longing.</p><p>“Yeah,” Chris pants, bending down closer to him, breath warm, body warm, “knew you’d want that, I know you love that, you need it, you’re gonna come as I fill you up with me, aren’t you? Because you’re <em>my</em> good boy, so nice and good, just lyin’ there all soft and sweet and <em>taking</em> it—yeah, Seb, fuck yeah, I’m—fuck—such a good boy, Seb, so good, come on, come from me fucking you—”</p><p>And Chris’s hips jerk and slam forward on the words, and Chris’s body tenses all over, and Chris’s climax rushes out in hot jets inside Sebastian’s body, as Chris gazes down and Sebastian gazes up at Chris above him.</p><p>And Sebastian’s body does—something, something strange and wondrous and overflowing and expanding; he quivers and convulses and rocks feebly beneath Chris’s weight bearing down, his mouth open, his hole fluttering and twitching, his cock pulsing and spurting and releasing more thin clear fluid in spasms of pleasure and pain, overwhelmed and swept away and helpless not to come and come again with Chris’s length buried so deep in him and Chris’s climax filling him up, as Chris tells him he’s such a good boy, such a sweet boy, all Chris’s forever, Chris’s boy, always and always…</p><p>The world becomes watercolor, flares of color pooling and merging, dripping with ecstasy. Faraway. Indistinct and dim. He’s not unconscious, or he doesn’t think so. Close. Floating. Unable to talk or to stir. But feeling everything: as Chris eases out of his slack body, as Chris kisses him again and again, as Chris’s come begins to trickle from his stretched gaping hole.</p><p>Chris holds him open to look, to stroke his rim with a fingertip, to take in the sight of him all messy and so well claimed. Sebastian likes the feeling of Chris looking at him. He likes all the feelings.</p><p>He lies in place without moving at all, just drifting, all his edges undefined and wandering into the morning light, into their sheets, into the solid sturdy presence of their bed. He’s all of it: the world, the light, the heavy roots of wood. He’s here and also far-off, surrounded by clouds and tumbled gemstones and buoyant rocking waves. He recognizes the warmth of Chris beside him; he lets everything else go, knowing only the rich swirl of fulfillment and wonder and gratitude and pleasure, bone-deep, at that presence. Chris has him, will hold onto him, will take him to this space and make him feel just like this, so soft and sweet and easy, time and time again, he knows.</p><p>Chris’s hands touch him, cherish him, clean him up. Chris’s voice says words, soothing, settling, resting over him like blankets. Sebastian’s body does a few more little uncontrollable twitches and jolts of pleasure, all on its own. He can feel himself breathing; he feels Chris’s hand touch his chest, over his heart, and then briefly check his pulse. That’s nice too.</p><p>Chris lies back down with him, guiding Sebastian to nestle close, hand petting Seb’s body all over: deliberate comforting caresses, long and drawn-out and undemanding but very much an anchor, real and present and tangible. Chris is a safe harbor to come back to. Chris will protect him and make him keep feeling nice. He trusts Chris.</p><p>Eyes closed—when’d that happened?—he breathes in, breathes out. Flows with the tide, letting it draw him closer to waking.</p><p>“The way you look,” Chris says—Chris has been talking, another form of anchor, but the words start to form clearer shapes in Sebastian’s head again now—and the hand petting him lingers over his left hip, for a second or two. “The way you look, when you let me give you this…when you’re that deep, that far under, and, god, you’re fucking gorgeous, Seb…I’m the luckiest guy on the whole damn planet, I swear, gettin’ to be here with you…the way you trust me, Jesus, baby, I can’t even—God, look at me, ’m fucking crying, not like you don’t know that about me after sex with you, though. You know me. You <em>know</em> me, Seb, and you’re letting me know you, and that’s—that’s fucking amazing, you know that?”</p><p>Sebastian tries opening his eyes. Heaviness lingers there too, but he wants to see Chris.</p><p>“Oh, hey.” Chris cuddles him closer, tucks his face into Sebastian’s hair for a brief second, kisses the top of his head. Knit blankets, kicked into a pile down by the foot of the bed, perk up in case they’re needed. “Take your time, okay, Seb? No rush. You just come on back, nice and slow, I’ll be here. I’m right here. Got water and orange juice and some of your chocolate with the coffee and hazelnut filling, and also I’ll make some sandwiches after we’re more awake, ’cause you need energy after that, but no hurry. We’re all good. You’re good.”</p><p>Sebastian says, “Chris.” His voice emerges small but clear, like a newborn diamond.</p><p>“You don’t have to talk yet. If you’re not feelin’ up to it.” Extra Boston; Chris must be a little worried, though not saying so.</p><p>“I’m here.” More words. Feeling…yes, good. Sebastian stretches a leg experimentally, points toes, wiggles them. Also good. Lighter. Exhausted, wrung dry, but relieved, as if a giant lonely weight’s left his bones. Elation in fingertips, in the air in his lungs, in the strand of sweat-damp hair stuck to his eyebrow. “I love you.”</p><p>“So you’re gonna be awake.”</p><p>“I am awake. I feel…god. I don’t even know. Fucking…what even <em>was</em> that, oh my god, Chris, fuck.” He pauses. Fits himself even more into the circle of Chris, which promptly nestles even tighter around him. “What are words, seriously.”</p><p>“Guessing you liked that, then.”</p><p>“Liked?” Seb tips his head up to catch Chris’s hopeful—and slightly concerned, in the way of a protective dominant heart—expression. “I mean. Yeah. But that’s not the word. More like…everything I’ve ever had a fantasy about. All at once.”</p><p>Chris’s exhale carries a laugh, and a hint of reprieve. “Good. You like being my sweet boy, don’t you? Not, like, every day, all the time. But sometimes.”</p><p>“I do. I need it sometimes, I think.” He remembers how to move a hand, pokes Chris in the ribs. “You know that.”</p><p>“I know you do. And I love givin’ that to you.” Chris’s hand finds its way into Sebastian’s hair: coaxing back that stray wisp, running through strands, cradling Seb’s head. “Love knowing I can. That <em>I’m</em> the one who gets to give you what you need.”</p><p>“Mine,” Sebastian agrees. “<em>My</em> Chris.”</p><p>“Hell yeah.”</p><p>“My Chris who’ll make us sandwiches in a minute, when we get up.”</p><p>“Said I would.” Chris bumps their noses together. “Who says you’re getting up? Gonna wrap you in blankets and set you on the couch.”</p><p>“And, what, keep me naked and helpless while you feed me by hand?”</p><p>Chris raises eyebrows at him: <em>yeah, and you’re gonna complain about that?</em> Which arrives with a side of <em>still in charge here, sweet kid</em> plus a trace, the lightest possible, of <em>please let me take care of you</em>. Sebastian opens his mouth, shuts it, opts for, “Oh, I see how it is. You want me to spend the whole day being all dependent on you, letting you take care of everything I need.”</p><p>“Well,” Chris says, in a tone that might or might not be serious, depending on what Sebastian says next.</p><p>Sebastian gives him raised eyebrows right back, this time. “Not saying no. I like being yours, Chris. So yes.” Making it clear: yes. “But, like…we’re not doing that every day.”</p><p>“No,” Chris says. “I just…maybe just today. Some days. When we need it. I missed you.”</p><p>“I might’ve missed you too.” He leans in; their lips meet. “Kinda why I showed up in your bed, y’know.”</p><p>Chris pulls back a fraction, enough to stare at him. “<em>Our</em> bed.”</p><p>“Our,” Sebastian echoes, and stops. Maybe his brain’s not a hundred percent back from the clouds yet. Or maybe Chris means—maybe Chris <em>does</em> mean—</p><p>“Our bed,” Chris says again, expression a heart-shattering mix of hope and concern: Sebastian’s not understanding this, this is important, Chris absolutely means this. “I mean, if you want. I think—I’ve been thinking of it that way. For a while, I guess. Our house. Not just mine. Someplace we both come home to.”</p><p>“You want,” Sebastian whispers, not on purpose but because the words come out that way, amazed and full of so much happiness that anything louder might shatter the sounds and overflow riverbanks and tumble skyward, “you want me to move in?”</p><p>“We can keep your place in New York,” Chris whispers back, “or find a different place, bigger, maybe, a little more room for us both. And Dodger. I’m not asking you to leave—I know you love New York, Seb. I know you do. So I guess I’m asking…yeah, I am, I am asking this. Right now. I want you to move in here, and I want to move in with you, I want it <em>all</em> to be ours. Um. If you want that. You don’t have to say yes or no right now, no pressure, you should totally take your time and think about—and also we just—fuck, this was the worst timing, I just dropped this on you right after—you just woke up and I—”</p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>“Yes…it was…the worst timing and I suck at this, or—”</p><p>“Yes to you!” Sebastian flings arms around <em>his</em> Chris: triumphant, exhilarated, bubbling over with aftermath and conviction and laughter like champagne: sparkling, rising, dancing in veins. “Yes to everything. To <em>our</em> everything. To our bed, and you keeping me naked and all yours, because I am, you know I am, and yes to us moving in together and—and yes, Chris, I love you so fucking much, you’re perfect and this is perfect and yes.”</p><p>“Yes,” Chris repeats, wide-eyed but beginning to grin, so Sebastian proclaims firmly, “<em>Yes</em>,” and kisses him again in their bed, naked and certain about their future, while out in the living room Dodger’s getting up and trotting their direction to see what all the fuss is about, and the blankets beam from their heap at the foot of the bed, and the morning light streams in like a benediction made of gold.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some part of my brain wants to write a chapter two, which would be round two, which would have, like...Chris keeping Seb naked and soft and sweet all day...hand-feeding Seb, of course...perhaps fisting...maybe sounding...<strike>probably eventually watersports in the sense of Seb getting so well fucked he just loses all control over his body and Chris loves that</strike>...in and around discussions of the practicalities of moving in together. We'll see. My brain has thoughts in those directions, and perhaps people would enjoy them? But that's all still very much in the Vague Thoughts stage.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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